


His Ex-Wife Is A Soviet

by hapabap



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Comedy of Errors, Gen, How did this even happen, M/M, never ask France for help
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 20:28:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3302444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapabap/pseuds/hapabap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America is set on a mission from his bosses to see if Austria will join the Soviets. Hilarity ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flowers Would Have Been Weird

"Cigarette?"

He knew Germany would not take the tobacco offered unless he had a contract in writing stating that it was given to him freely and could not be considered stolen or loaned property, but for America, offering just seemed like the polite thing to do. As expected, Germany tapped the box away from him.

"What is it that you want?" he asked. It was two hours until the meeting would continue, the sort of meeting where German would sit back as stoically as possible and watch old, foreign men barter over his every bit and piece. But for now, he had some spare time, spare time in which America could catch him in the hallway, and even though America knew that he had absolutely no interest in speaking to him, he was going to make him anyway.

"Don't worry! I'm not here about any treaties or money or anything. I just wanted to ask you a personal question."

"Now isn't really the time or the place for --"

"Actually, it is! Now is the only time I can ask you. And it's not really about you, not so much anyway. I just went to visit Austria yesterday. He was acting awful queer! Not queer-queer but there's... there was definitely something off about him. What did you do to him?" Who knew if being straightforward was the best option, but they only had two hours and America didn't understand the personal situation here between all these germanic nations and was not going to waste two full hours dipping his toes into someone else's family drama when they could be better spent grabbing lunch.

"I didn't do anything to him!"

"Well, you _invaded_ him, and then you _annexed_ him," said America, "That's already two things. I'm sure you did more. So, tell me." He returned the pack of cigarettes to his pocket an dug out a card of matches.

"Then you know what happened," said Germany. "He was invaded and annexed." And Germany's expression read 'and it was not so violent as those words imply, elections, Nazis, social democrats, Karl Renner, blah blah blah.' Fact or fiction, all that was besides the point.

"He lived in your house, though."

"That is what tends to happen to nations when they are annexed, yes." God, that passive construction again. Nothing pissed America off more. But, he pressed ever onward.

"So... what were conditions like for him in your house? Was he a servant? Under house arrest?" Deprived food or clothing? Locked in the basement? Served a daily dose of arsenic? There were only so many things he would admit to right now, but the possibilities of what happened behind closed doors were endless.

"He was in charge of the house while I was out."

"Howso?"

"Took care of the cooking, the cleaning, yard, repairs, upkeep... I was out most of the time. I was needed elsewhere." Invading all of your neighbors sure would keep you away from home, that's for sure.

"So... like, your wife, essentially," said America.

"If you insist on putting it that way, yes. Are you going to actually light that cigarette or do you just have some kind of oral fixation?"

"Hey, don't change the subject! And are you really in any position to get snippy with me?" He jabbed that cigarette before returning it to his mouth, and Germany jerked back, took a breath before he answered.

"I don't... I don't think I did anything particularly unkind to him when he was in my house," said Germany.

" _Particularly_ ," America prodded.

"I may have snapped at him a few times."

"You snapped at him? That's all?"

"It may have been several times," said Germany. And this 'snapping' that America had heard so much about, from Italy's behavior, made him wonder if it was a euphemism for something else. The question, then, was whether Germany was the type of man who would beat his wife. "He didn't do a thing I told him to. I'd come home and the pantry would be empty of everything but dust. And by the end of it, he wasn't doing much at all. The neighbors did not even know he lived there, he left the house so little."

"Was he sick?"

"Not more than the rest of us. Why, is he now?"

"He might be. I can't tell." He finally just stuffed the cigarette and matches back in his pocket. It wasn't something he wanted to do alone, he realized. "I was at his house yesterday around eleven. I'd told him I would be there, but he answered the door in his nightclothes and yelled at me for seeing him in them, and then made me help him find his glasses because he'd managed to kick them under the bed."

"Hm." Germany thought for a moment. "Well, that doesn't sound unlike him."

"But it doesn't sound _like_ him?"

"I don't understand what kind of information you want from me. It's  neither usual nor unusual behavior --"

"Do you think he's being difficult on purpose?"

"It's not impossible. He's not above such tactics. But see, you've given him the role of victim. He may just be acting out the role you've given him. Or, he may have just overslept for some reason or another. I don't know."

"I mean... you haven't seen him be more cooperative with someone else, though, right? Say... France? Russia?"

"That's what this is about?" Germany scoffed.

"His wife is a Soviet --"

"Ex-wife."

"Whatever! She still is one. Do you think he'd follow her?"

Germany opened his mouth to speak, but closed it as a few politicians passed them in the hallway, and waited until they were out of immediate earshot to begin.

"If you want to figure out if the country of Austria will join the Soviets, look at his bosses, not him. He himself does not have much interest in politics. Never has."

"How can he not have interest in his own politics?"

"He doesn't care about things he doesn't enjoy. He's always been flighty, and, well."

"Weak?"

"You said it, not me," said Germany.

"So, what does he like? Anything besides old composers?" asked America. That was what he liked, right? That was the extent of his knowledge about the guy, and that bit was even second-hand. 

"Art, music, food -- you're wasting your time. He --"

"Food, you say." Of course. Everyone liked food, especially when there was not enough of it.

"Sweets," Germany said. "Pastries."

"So, if I bring him a torte, or something, he'll talk to me?" asked America. It was so simple. Something he should have thought of before. He knew he should have brought something when he came over, but he couldn't think of what else he could have besides flowers, and flowers would have been weird.

"I don't know about talk to you," he said. "But he'll eat it."


	2. Off By Just One Letter

It had taken some string pulling to get the ingredients (there may have been a shortage, but his bosses understood that this was a matter of national security) and the fabrication of a long, drawn-out story about a beautiful girl who never existed, but in the end, America did manage to get a "tarte". A _tarte_ , it turned out, not a _torte_ , because France had misheard him the first time and America had no idea there was that much of a difference. Before he could rant about how stupid it was for cakes and pies to be off by just one letter in continental Europe, France shushed him and said that the tart was magnificent (after all, he'd made it himself) and that if the girl liked sweet things, she'd quickly forget that America had promised a torte in the presence of such an exquisite dessert and the seduction could carry on. And that was the point, no?

However, the finished product, America thought, looked remarkably un-Austrian, not that he actually knew what an Austrian pastry was supposed to look like, but he was sure it was not this. But a pastry was a pastry, and it smelled, well, probably not as pants-droppingly fantastic as France insisted, but still enough to make him drool.

The smell was not so strong the next day, and, packed away neatly in a white paper box, it could have been anything. And, standing there in front of Austria's door, knocking once, twice, America thought that this is what he should have done in the first place. A cake was the right thing to bring. Well, pie. Was a pie still weird? Maybe a little --

The door opened, but only halfway.

"Austria! Hey! You're wearing clothes today."

The door closed a half-inch.

"What do you want, America?"

"I-I wanted to make it up to you for last time." Hadn't he called ahead? He had. Yesterday. He was sure of it. "I have, a, uh," he held up the white box, and Austria glanced down at it before staring back at him. "It's a gift." Austria paused, before taking the box and fully opening the door.

The first thing America had noticed was that Austria's house was very large. The second was that it was very empty. There were places for furniture and rugs and paintings when there were none of those things there. The kitchen table still remained, and that's where Austria gingerly set and unfolded the bo. After a moment of judgement, his expression softened and he smelled it. "This is France's work, isn't it?"

"You can tell that just by sniffing it?"

"I could say that it's because he's left-handed so he always pipes his meringue clockwise, but it's because I can't think of how else you would have acquired such a thing. How did you get it?"

"I have my ways."

"You're used to getting what you want, aren't you."

"Maybe," said America. "Well, do you want to try it?" Austria kept his distance from it, like it was something he could look at and not possess. Did he need a contract to sign over possession of the pie, too? "I mean, it is yours. You could save it for later, if you want, I guess." Though that would be a terrible waste. He inevitably began imagining Austria sitting alone in an empty house and eating an entire pie. Kind of funny, kind of sad.

"It's just that I don't have any plates or silverware or coffee or anything," he said finally.

"Oh."

"They were sent over to Ludwig's when I was annexed."

"Oh, well," said America, "That's not so much of a problem if you have a bit of ingenuity." He tore the cardboard box's lid apart into two sheets and drew a utility knife from his pocket.

"Is that clean?"

"Should be," he said. He ate with it all the time, so if it wasn't, he'd probably be dead by now. The worst thing that could happen was that the edges he'd cut tasted a bit like summer sausage. But, as Austria stared at the pie, awaiting the first incision, America suddenly grew nerves because he knew nothing of these crazy European desserts and he just knew that the guy across the table with the aristocratic upbriging was just waiting to see if he'd screw this up.

"Why don't you do it?" he said, handing over the knife, and Austria cut the tart into sixths (not halves, though there were only two of them there) and struggled with excising the pieces but managed to plop two slices down onto the cardboard 'plates' without mangling them too badly.

And Austria found a measuring spoon from the cabinet and America took back his knife and they struggled to eat the tart.

"You know, these are illegal in my country?" said America.

"Pies?"

"No... I mean, uh, currants."

Austria didn't seem surprised by either suggestion, though.

"Why?"

"Because they spread tree diseases."

"Oh."

He had to steer the conversation elsewhere. Right now he had no idea whether Austria had communist sympathies, only that he liked blackcurrant pie, and America was liking it too, so that was no indication of anything.

"So, why haven't you gotten any new silverware?"

"I can't afford _new_ silverware," said Austria. "I _have_ silverware already. It's just not here."

"But you haven't gone back to get it."

"I'm not going back there," he said firmly.

"So you have silverware, but it's not here, and you're not going to get it. That's the same as not having silverware, isn't it?" Or... was he planning on moving somewhere else soon so he wouldn't need it? Maybe... back in with his ex-wife? Maybe, Russia's house, even?

"That's how it will be until he sends me my things back."

"You do know that he's been really busy, and that getting your stuff back to you is probably at the bottom of his priorities, if he's even thought to do it at all? If you want your stuff back from him, you're going to have to claim it like everyone else is."

"Do you even remember what happened? I _can't_ go back there." 

"I don't remember what happened because I wasn't there," said America. He tried to sound sympathetic, remembering that what Germany called 'snapping' may not have actually been 'snapping.'

"Braginsky snuck me out of that house in the middle of the night before the war was over. I can't exactly show my face again there after leaving like that." Russia. Russia did this. Not that America hadn't know that the succession would not have been possible without the Soviets, but he hadn't known that Russia was involved so personally.

"I promise you don't have to do any sneaking anymore," said America. "It's all occupied. You can go back and take what's yours and nobody will question you." Who knew what 'snapping' meant? "I won't let them."

"I'm not going back there," Austria repeated.

"You can't just live in a house without any kind of forks or plates or anything!"

"And you can't force me to go back!" The pie on the cardboard sheets had transformed into clots of black-purple sauce with crumbled bits of crust and meringue from all the poking with a blunt instrument. This was pathetic. Very pathetic.

"I'll get your silverware, then," said America. If he got them, he'd have an excuse to coe back, and an excuse to come back would mean he'd be better able to pry information from Austria. And doing something nice like that would get him on his good side, wouldn't it? The pie had gotten Austria to talk to him, anyway. He'd learned a lot, even if he didn't have an answer about where Austria's alliance would lie yet. He just had to keep going.

"You would do that for me?"

"Sure! I mean, as long as I'm over there, why not?"

Austria paused, chewing on the measuring spoon thoughtfully.

"And how many things would you be willing to get while you're over there, exactly?"


	3. A Certain Type Of Person

The word "bench" just after 'baby grand piano' had been underlined three times after America, upon first looking at the list, commented that he probably wouldn't be able to fit an entire piano in the car, even if it was just a baby. No, Austria just wanted the bench, he said as though separating the baby from the bench ws a terrible tragedy. he wanted the sheet music in it and he wanted to be able to sit on it when he played the cello that America was also supposed to deliver. That cello was the important part, probably his most prized possession, maybe not in monetary value, but you don't get attached to pianos like you can cellos. This one was from Italy and had such and such a warm tone and he bemoaned that he had not had a chance to loosen the strings because he hadn't known he would be leaving it for so long,a nd who knew what the humidity was like in Germany's house now, and blah blah blah, and America should pick up any cakes of rosin he sees if there are any laying around. He was about to explain what those looked like when America stopped him. Though he hadn't for a while, America did use to play fiddle so he knew what rosin looked like and wouldn't do anything stupid like collapse the soundpost. And that did seem to calm Austria down a bit, but he still reminded him before he left to _be careful._  
  
Anyway, it should have been easy enough. Austria had claimed that he'd only asked for "essentials" and if both the trunk and the bench fit, then everything else would be gravy. Except for the fact that today, of all days, was the day that Russia had decided to move out East Germany from West Germany's house. All streetspace nearby was crowded with car and inside had to be every Baltic and Slav that Russia could enlist, no doubt. What would have been a simple matter of ordering an occupied state to give up a few items that didn't even belong to him in the first place suddenly became a covert operation. Russia wouldn't stand for anything that "shouldn't" be taken, and while the cello and piano bench were a clear-cut case of Austria's belongings, if Russia saw him, he'd argue over every fork and undershirt.  
  
America turned the rearview mirror and tried to flatten his hair, thinking, maybe, if he kept his head down and moved quickly, everyone in the house might just assume he was Estonia and let him take the things from the house without question.  
  
And he'd entered the house easily, without detection (the door was open), and gotten so far as to take the bench from the parlor and begun back down the hallway.  
  
"This is my tankard! How did you even get this!" came a voice from the nearby kitchen.  
  
"It's not yours, it's mine. You probably just have one like it --"  
  
"It's mine!" shouted Poland. The other voice wasn't Germany. Prussia, probably? "You totally just ganked this from my house!"  
  
"You lying little --"  
  
"If you're both full of enough energy to scream at each other, why aren't you packing any faster?" A third voice. That one was definitely Russia. America had taken to trying to shuffle down the hallway as quietly as possible.  
  
"I'm _not_ packing away all the stuff he _stole_ from me."  
  
"Then don't," said Russia. "Keep it."  
  
"But --"  
  
"Do you want a cast to match Feliks'? No? Then do not make any more problems here. Understand? Good."  
  
And America was so, so close to the door, but --  
  
"Ah! Estonia. I need you to -- you. You are not Estonia." Russia had poked out of the kitchen, his expression sour. "America. I told you we did not need your help for this. Why are you here."  
  
"Well, that's good, because I'm not here to help you at all. I'm just grabbing some things Austria told me to get, so, if you'll let me do that, I'll get out of here soon as possible."  
  
"Is that so."  
  
"Look! He even gave me a list." He shoved the bench under one arm and withdrew the crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. "See?"  
  
Russia snatched it away, read over it once, twice, and was forced to accept that the list was authentic because there was no way America's handwriting could ever be made so small and neat. He called back into the hall. "Tolys!"  
  
And when Russia called, Lithuania came running, his hair tied back.  
  
"Yes, sir?" He glanced to America with dread before returning all that attention to Russia.  
  
"Help Alfred here gather Austria's things." America restrained himself from flinching. He didn't care much about who used his name familiarly, but he thought he had rescinded those priveleges from Russia years ago. "Make sure nothing gets into his car that's not on the list." He handed off the piece of paper to Lithuania and left, muttering to himself something about Estonia and a dresser. And then, they were alone -- or at least as alone as they were going to get, for now.  
  
"So Liet," America started back towards the door. "How is everything?"  
  
"Oh, you know," he said, reading the list. "Feliks doesn't take to crutches too well, and I've been trying to keep Raivis from doing so much heavy lifting with his bad back and... do you need any help with that?"  
  
"Oh no, I can handle this one!" America hefted the bench weighted down with books inside. "Let's just get this to my car and then we can get another load." When they did get to the door, Lithuania held the door open for him.  
  
"You're lucky Russia did not just kick you out."  
  
"It is Austria's stuff. He has a right to his own stuff. Russia did agree to that earlier."  
  
"Things that get agreed on aren't always the things that end up happening," said Lithuania, shutting the door behind him. "Though, I guess considering Austria's situation, it makes sense that he'd be more forgiving --"  
  
"Situation?" That word had broken up America's mental planning on how all the items were going to fit in the car. The cello had to go in the passenger's seat, on Austria's insistence, but the rest was going to be a puzzle.  
  
"You heard what happened, didn't you?" asked Lithuania in a hushed tone.  
  
"No, what?" Better to feign ignorance, in case his version of 'what happened' is different than another 'what happened'. This was all reconnaisance, after all.  
  
"Well, I guess it's no longer a secret. Russia broke into this house, took Austria, and brought him back to his own country."  
  
"A daring rescue?" said America, trying to sound surprised. Even if he had heard the story before, it did not really sound like Russia, unless there was something in it for him. Maybe it was a long game, to try to make Austria feel indebted, or something. "Did you help?"  
  
"Oh, no. I heard he brought Belarus with him. She's more, you know. Persuasive."  
  
America pulled open the car's back door, positioning the bench inside.  
  
"That sounds more like a kidnapping than a heroic rescue."  
  
"Russia had called it an 'extraction,'" said Lithuania. Nice and neutral, like a bad tooth. "So Russia's responsible for him not moving out properly, in a sense. But this doesn't explain why he's not moving himself out."  
  
"I offered to grab a few things when I was at his place yesterday," said America.  
  
"You were there yesterday? Why?"  
  
"Trying to make friends, of course."  
  
"Is that a good idea?" asked Lithuania as they began heading back.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"I've just heard he's not into that sort of 'making friends'. Not an easy person to get to know. You should ask his ex-wife."  
  
"Maybe I should. Is Hungary here?"  
  
"What? No!" Lithuania grimaced. "Are you insane? He wants Prussia moved out, not concussed and put in traction. It's bad enough that Poland's here. Are you insane?"  
  
"It's not like anybody gave me a helpful who-hates-who pamphlet when I got here," America huffed.  
  
"Before you start 'making friends' all willy-nilly, you might want to do some research first."  
  
"All right! jeez, yeah, I'm stupid, I get it, whatever."  
  
Lituania paused on the porch, folding the list back into fourths.  
  
"Can I give you some advice? As a friend?"  
  
"Uh, sure."   
  
He glanced back into the house, back into the yard. "I don't know if this will be a problem, actually, but I just wanted to tell you, based on what I have heard. It may just be what I have heard, but I hear a lot of things..."  
  
"Spit it out, already!" If it was some huge secret, the sooner said the better -- they may be alone at that moment, but anyone could come at any time.  
  
"You might not know this because you were very isolated and are still quite young, but there's a certain type of person out there. And this certain type of person, well, they're used to being _served_ , really, when it comes down to it. That's the only way I can think to explain it now. When they are offered things, they will take them, and keep taking and taking them without a second thought, like it's the natural way of things. But, that's not so awful. The worst of it is, that if you were one to offer, and you keep offering, you may fall into the habit of giving them everything, and then it does become the way of the world for you, too. You realize you can't care and stop at the same time, and because you do care you can't stop."  
  
Well, those sure were a lot of words Lithuania had said, and America was sure that most of them probably had gone way over his head, but he thought he understood enough.  
  
"And you're saying, then, is that Austria is that type of person."  
  
"I don't know if he is or if he isn't," said Lithuania coldly, "But it's something for you to think about."


	4. One More Thing

"And this would have to be the silverware," said Austria, running a hand over the last box. He unclicked the latches to take a look inside, all the forks and spoons and knives lined up in their compartments. America had found them like that, like they hadn't been used for a long time. Austria looked at the list, then folded it back and set it on the table. "Everything's right the first time."

"What, did you expect anything less?" asked America, though, admittedly, having two people go over it may have helped prevent anything from being forgotten.

"I'm not very used to things being done correctly the first time," said Austria. He left the pack of silverware on the trunk, now that obligations had been settled, and immediately laid out the cello case on the floor and unlatched that. America stood back, watching as the other nation sighed in relief, picking the instrument out carefully, plucking the strings and listening and grimacing and swearing under his breath as he reached for the pegs.

The cello was the only important thing int he room now, apparently. It had been the only important thing since before it arrived, because nothing in the kitchen seemed to have had any attention since then. The tart, two-thirds left and two-days old, still sat on the table, the torn-off pieces of cardboard stacked besides it, as he'd left them. The only thing different was that, upon closer inspection, he saw a few dead ants crystallized in the jam that had not been there before.

"You didn't eat your pie," said America as Austria adjusted the cello's end pin.

"I haven't been hungry," he said. But he had liked it, hadn't he? Even if he was some kind of freak who wouldn't finish a pie he had liked, he still wouldn't have left it out like this. There were even dead ants drowned in the sauce stuck to the cardboard. Maybe there were some in the pie by now. Disgusting.

"Are you okay?" asked America, and Austria diverted his attention for long enough to glare.

"Can you hush a minute?" He sat on the bench, finding a crook in the floor to hold the end-pin steady and began tightening the bow. And once rosined-up, he began to tune. And tune, and tune, turning pegs by a quarter centimeter this way and that and making all sorts of huffs and strange expressions until he finally rested his bow on his knee and said, "Is there a tuning fork in that case? I thought I left it with the violin but it could be in there."

America was about to bend down to search the compartments but remembered what Lithuania had said, and what his bosses wanted him to do. 

"No, seriously. Are you okay?"

"If you want the pie, you can take it for yourself."

"There are ants in it!"

For a moment, he was distracted from the cello long enough to look at the table. "There are?"

"There are. Look!" America held up the ant-trap cardboard, and his lip curled.

"I- must have forgotten about it. I think I have an ulcer so I've been avoiding eating. Throw that out!" 

"Get yogurt or something, then." This would explain a lot of things, actually. As they were so intimately connected with their nations, they didn't 'need' to eat, but after a day of not eating, you noticed that you had started feeling out-of-sorts, and after three days everyone else noticed, too. And during shortages, all of them avoided food, but if that was the reasoning then he wouldn't have left an entire pie to waste.

But Austria ignored that suggestion, ignored the ants, too, instead pulling the cello case toward him and digging around in one of the compartments. 

"Are you leaving, soon?" he asked.

"Are you kicking me out?"

"I meant are you leaving Europe."

"I do have to leave in a few days, yeah," said America. "I only get a week at home and then it's off to the Pacific again. I'll have to be back in a couple months, I think. There's too much to do around here."

"So you are going home," said Austria. "I'd like to ask you a favor."

Another favor. Liet was right, and if he really hadn't eaten since the pie, he probably wasn't even aware of what he was doing. People who can't think straight might be easier to ply important information from, but what was America going to learn doing all these 'favors'?

"But I'm leaving!"

"I know, and that's why you're the only one who can do it. There's a man named Arnold Schönberg who I think lives in your country now. Last I remember he was in Los Angeles."

"I'm not going to have time to find one guy in Los Angeles. I don't have time to look for needles in haystacks. Do you have any idea how many people in my country have the name Arnold Schönberg?"

Austria quirked and eyebrow. "How many?"

"I have no idea! Lots, probably --"

"I'm not asking you to find him. I'm just curious about what he's up to. He should have records, scores, articles, prints..."

"So he's like, some famous musician? This stuff will be easy to find?"

"I don't know anymore," said Austria. "But you could try."

"I'll see if I have time," said America. And, he would only have time after giving this some serious thought if this was an entanglement worth getting into or if he should tell his boss this route is useless. Austria straightened his posture and began silently practicing the fingerings of God-knows-what on the cello. America couldn't take more than a minute of being completely ignored. "Anyway, I should go. I'll see you later, Austria."

"One more thing," he said, pausing his fingers.

"Yeah?" One more thing. Always one more thing --

"Please, call me Roderich."


	5. Facts Heavily Implied

"So, how was the date?" asked France.

America had to leave in less than two hours. He had thought about not sitting in at this last meeting, using that scheduled train as an excuse, but the idea to do that had only occurred to him after telling England that he would have time to come to this one. That had been an off-hand comment. He could claim that he had forgotten about how early it took to get to the train station, how far it was, but all this social scheming was exhausting. No more. He'd thought going to the meeting he said he'd go to and being done with it would be easier, but apparently not.

So, he was here, in full view of France. Not that he had been avoiding France because America knew he'd be far too interested in the fate of the tarte and what it should have helped facilitate. Not at all. A date may be more interesting than the drafts and the near perpetual aches France complained of, but that did not make America was not his entertainment.

"I don't kiss and tell," said America.

"So it went well."

"What's this about a date?" asked England, for once in the whole meeting glancing up at the new draft. Sometimes, America wondered why they were even there. All these treaties and resolutions and all would get figured out without them present. It's not like these old men actually took their Nation's suggestions seriously, but England had insisted that was not the point, and religiously read through every draft handed to him, all the while sipping now-lukewarm tea.

"I don't know, but there was at least a kiss involved," said France.

"Didn't you have reading to do? Is this why you've been so useless here --"

"What are you yelling about now?" asked Russia. He had been stationed at the far corner of the room, out of the way with an unimportant voice in negotiations and to keep from blocking the view of anyone because he was so tall. But, somehow, he'd glided across the room to the rest of the allies noiselessly in a way nobody would ever figure out.

"America had a date and won't tell us anything," France whined.

"Date?" said Russia, "But you've been helping Austria all this last week, haven't you, Alfred?"

England nearly spat out his tea. As it was he couldn't help some of it dribbling out of his mouth and had to wipe his face with the back of his sleeve. "Austria? _Austria_?"

France let out a deep sigh and collapsed back into his chair. "You should have told me it was Austria! He has no appreciation of simple flavors. That was exactly the wrong thing --"

"Why _Austria_?"

"I never said Austria! I am capable of doing two things at once!"

"Oh, now I feel bad for both of them," said England. America looked around, futilely, for Russia. Apparently he had no interest in sticking around for the discord he'd just sown. Bastard.

"Did he enjoy the tarte _at all_?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Because creating something takes so much effort, so I at least have some right to know if it was appreciated secretly by someone who takes every opportunity to assert that his desserts are _sooooo_ much better!" France was leaning uncomfortably close now, near snarling, all over a dumb pastry.

"He -- I don't know! he barely had any. He said he had an ulcer or something, so he wasn't hungry."

France backed off, burying his face in his hands.

"I liked the tarte thing," said America.

"You don't even know the difference between a tarte and a torte."

"But _why_ Austria?" England repeated. If this kept on for long enough, America would be late for his train.

"Well, it makes sense, from a certain standpoint," said France with a sigh. "He's not close to Austria, but not enemies now, either. There's little politics, but he's going to be returning here often for the forseeable future. And yet, he's not human, so there's no uncomfortable explanation to fabricate. But he's no Lithuania. Everyone can like Lithuania. Why him?"

"I suppose... I could imagine why one might _try_ , if one had no idea what he was like," said England, setting down his tea. "Does have a nice bum, I guess."  
 

"You don't have a thing in common," asserted France, even though that was not strictly true. They both liked cake. Then again, if one's standareds for pursuit were liking cake, that would make nearly everyone fair game. But that was not the real question. The real question was, why was America even bothering to justify this in his head? "Look at him! He's turning red!"

"I am _not_." Lies, damned lies, becuase he felt the heat rising in his face.

"You're going to get him to pop a blood vessel if you go on like this," said England, amused.

"Ah, yeah, like you're one to talk."

"And besides, there's still a huge problem between you," said France. "Even if you did have a thing between you, it would never work. He's too reserved and you're too much of a prude. You're at an impasse before you even begin."

"I never said they were dates, you know --"

"Except that this fact was heavily implied--"

"--So, so maybe that doesn't matter. I'm allowed to have friends other than you two, aren't I?" America accused.

"Is it working then?" asked France, "Being friends?"

America paused.

"I... don't know."

"Has he even asked you to come back?"

Yes. Yes he had.

 _Twice,_ even.

But that had to just him offering to make himself useful, allowing himself to be used, wasn't it?

But America's expression must have been enough of an answer, because it gave England pause and France a catlike grin.

He really was going to be late for his train, wasn't he.  
  



	6. Something Rotten

America had time on the train to think. He and thinking were usually a dangerous combination, but he had decided to indulge in it anyway. And the more he thought, the more he figured out. He did not think 'amour' was in the air, no. But was there affection, now, between him an Austria? Maybe, he'd be willing to admit. Concern, however? Yes. He did think that at this point, he could say that he was concerned about this -- not Nation, or as a nation, necessarily -- person, or "Austria himself," as the verbage codified. (No, Roderich. He was supposed to be thinking 'Roderich' now, wasn't he?)

He was smart enough to know that something was wrong and that "not usual yet not unusual" was not helpful, but he did not have all of the background necessary to understand the Central European drama dysfunction. He would have asked Lithuania to draw a chart, but there wasn't time, so America had this brilliant idea to get right at the source of all the information he'd need. Not Austria himself, but his wife. No, ex-wife. The one who was becoming more and more buddy-buddy with the Soviets, the one who had mysteriously only married him for military reasons but still might be close enough to him to drag him over to the Reds. Maybe America's bosses thought that if he could prevent one of them from joining Russia, he could prevent both... which would have made more sense if they were still actually married.

America had scribbled down a short letter to Hungary and dropped it in a mailbox before boarding his plane. By the time he'd gotten home, he'd forgotten about it, and once he was in the Philipines, nothing could be further from his mind. However, when he returned home, he found her response buried in the rest of the mail on his desk.  
    

 

 

> _Dear Mr Jones,_   
>    
>  _It is good to hear that you are well. At least one of us is. I am as well as can be expected, given the situation. I have not made any appearance internationally since the new government gained power as they have given me no orders to. The new bosses are quite enamored with me, so I have some time to stay home with my people, as long as I do not tell them that a role in international diplomacy is expected of me. I don't know about you, but I do know that some Nations would think less of me for doing this, but who among us, when presented with such a golden opportunity, would not take advantage of it?_   
>    
>  _As for your questions on Mr Edelstein:_   
>    
>  _Hosting two opposing governments is enough to upset one's stomach to the point of ulcers and otherwise. This is not surprising -- I'm more surprised that you are unaware of that, as I've heard you were almost split in two once. It is possible that he is just recovering like the rest of us._   
>    
>  _HOWEVER, much of the behavior you described in our letter sounds very odd for him. I sense something rotten in your story -- I have not been as close to him for the past few decades, but I do not imagine that he could have changed so much in such a period of time without "help."_   
>    
>  _You would think with brothers like his, he would have grown a thicker skin, but trust me, with all his pomp he's can be sensitive underneath. I told his brothers to reconsider the annexation. Though that it was not truly they themselves' choice, I told them still to reconsider dragging him into their household. I told them this, and received no response from them. Nobody told me anything until Roderich began sending me letters himself._   
>    
>  _He did not send me many, maybe two or three a year. He sounded like he was very busy managing affairs at home while Ludwig and Gilbert were off fighting, so he didn't have much time to write me. But some of the letters were very elaborate, and one thing you wrote in your letter sounded particularly suspicious. That thing Ludwig told you:_   
>    
>  _"He didn't do a thing I told him to, and by the end of it, he wasn't doing much at all. The neighbors didn't even know he lived there because he so rarely left the house."_   
>    
>  _This is NOT the same person I read about in my letters. In fact, I dug out these letters and reread them, to be sure that they actually did so oppose this statement. One of them is lying, and I suspect it is Roderich. What motive has Ludwig to lie? As you confronted him about possible abuse, every reason -- and yet, it is still his version that sounds worse, even if it is covering up poor treatment. This does not make any sense. From your letter, I am forced to believe that Roderich tricked me into thinking all was well when it was not so I would not worry about him._   
>    
>  _I fear I must soon end my "vacation" and visit him at first opportunity. Thank you for informing me of this situation. Without your letter, I may never have known._   
>    
>  _Sincerely,_   
>    
>  **** _Erzsébet Héderváry_   
> 

Edelstein. He wasn't a Beilschmidt like the rest of them? How odd. Then again, he was Alfred Jones and somehow his twin brother had acquired the name Matthew Williams.

But that was just odd. The rest of the letter -- it had been dated about a week after America had sent it. Hungary must have already enacted... whatever she had intended to do. And America had wondered if, during his ill-advised bout of thinking, he had inadvertently kicked a hornet's nest.


	7. End Up Like Scriabin

America had acquired a record. It hadn’t been easy to find, but he’d delegated that work to someone, who had delegated that work to someone, and eventually it had probably ended up in the to-do pile of some page to find this orchestrated whatever in his spare time. What mattered was that he had gotten them, and apparently Austria, no, Roderich now, still wanted them.

At the door, dressed again, Roderich was not noticeably pleased or displeased to see him. There was no more pie on the kitchen table, but instead a half-eaten loaf of brown bread and an opened jar of mustard.

A formerly bare room was now occupied by a piano bench, music stand, cello, and now a record player in the corner, sitting next to the plain stand a box nearby holding a couple of recordings. The covers looked glossy and new.

“So,” said America, holding up the records awkwardly. 

“So?” asked Roderich expectantly.

“So, I couldn’t find much about the, uh, what actually happened to this guy, but, uh, this one is dated 1943, so I guess he was all right until 1943 —“  
Roderich took the recording America had held and inspected the cover’s fine print, carefully sliding the disc from the cover.

“You realize that 1943 is the recording date and not the written date, correct?”

“I’m not stupid,” said America. Roderich glanced up at him over his glasses like he didn’t believe him.

“But I don’t think I’ve heard this one before, so it may still be new,” he said, stuffing the cover of Arnold Schoenberg’s Piano Concerto Op 42 under his arm. He placed the record, flipped the switch, and dropped the needle. The piece began with what sounded like scattered piano notes and as he sat down on the bench, it did not seem to improve from there.

And he sat, and he listened, and watched the record turn, a lot of the sounds coming from the player more like keysmashing and noodling on strings and somewhere in the middle of it, he demanded that America stop standing there like an idiot and patted the seat next to him. So instead of standing there like an idiot, America sat on the bench like an idiot for what felt like a long time. There might have been snatches of a melody here or there but it was mostly absorbed into a torrent of sounds that didn’t sound much like anything more than notes.

And, after a while, it ended, and the needle circled round the end of the disc, playing plain crackling silence. He looked to Austria who seemed to be deep in thought, probably having smart thoughts, like this piece required a certain amount of musicianship to understand.

“Well, that was different,” said America.

“I don’t get it,” said Austria.

“Oh.”

Austria — Roderich, he reminded himself — got up and went back to the record player and reset the needle, starting the recording again. This time he paced while it played, and America didn’t know if it was his own ignorance that was getting to him or something in the music, but by the end of the second time he was beginning to feel distinctly unsettled.  
Roderich moved to replace the needle again, but America stopped him by asking, “Don’t you think that’s enough?”

So he removed the needle and stared at the photo on the record sleeve.

“I’ll try again later,” he said, returning the record to its sleeve. “You know, when people make new things, sometimes people just do not understand them right away. Arnold’s brilliant, I know. I knew that he was someone to watch when I met him. But, well. I just hope he does not end up like Scriabin. You know.”

“Uh, Scriabin?”

Roderich hunched over his box of records and began rifling through them.

“Alexander Scriabin. Some of his works towards the end of his life were a little… odd.”

“Like that?” America jabbed a thumb towards the record player.

“No. Not like that. They were never finished. I don’t really think they were meant to be _played_. They were too… involved. A fantasy. Aspirational but pointless in the end. I have some of his poems for piano in the bench if you want a look.” 

“I think I’m okay,” said America, because he was not sure how one could write a poem for piano, and he doubted he’d be able to appreciate them if they were in German or whatever and then he’d just feel awkward if Roderich wanted to talk about them.

“I have some Mendelssohn in here. Would you prefer Mendelssohn?”

“Which Mendelssohn?” That one sounded familiar, at least.

“Organ sonatas, mostly. It’s upsetting to think that these are probably rare records, now,” he said, picking a red-colored sleeve from the box.

“How would they be rare?”

“It’s all degenerate music. Erzebet brought them. I’d left records at her house, and as soon as she figured out what was going on, she hid these ones in her basement,” he said.

America tried to ignore the obvious melancholy in his voice and tried to do some math instead. The sleeve’s front read “ON VINYLITE” and he did not think that any of them were actually from before he would have separated from his ex-wife. So, even after he had supposedly separated, he had been to her house enough times to have left a small collection of apparently prized, modern possessions there. That was important, America thought, it had to be. He made a mental note to report that to his bosses as soon as he could.  
Roderich placed the needle on the new record, and it began to play the dense, airy sounds of an organ. America listened but he didn’t think he heard anything remarkable about it.

Roderich stood there, like an idiot, watching the record turn.

“Uh, do you miss your piano?” America tried to break up the mournful music.

“I haven’t played in a while,” said Roderich.

“I mean, it’s still at Germany’s house, right? Unless the Soviets decided to take it?”

“Hmm…” He lifted the needle of the record player and turned the record off again. “Maybe. Erzebet, I’m sure, still knows a few etudes I tried to teach her, but it was never really something she enjoyed practicing, so I doubt she’d want it. Also, she’d recognize that it was mine. Besides her, maybe… Czechia?  Other than that, I don’t know.”

“So it’s probably still there. If we could get a truck, we could literally just go get it, right?”

“No!”

“No?”

“I mean, I-I haven’t played in so long. It was too loud. I haven’t played in years, even. I don’t even know if I still know how,” said Roderich.

“You picked up your cello again well enough, didn’t you? And what do you mean it was too loud?”

“It was too loud,” he repeated.

“How, though?”

“It was just. Too. Loud.”

America tried to imagine the scenario, one of Austria’s supposedly favorite things, right in front of him, in his home, every single day, achingly close, and yet, not touching it. Because of self-restraint. Because it was, somehow, “too loud.” Maybe Austria did not enjoy the piano as much as everyone else claimed he did.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means I do not want to go and get my piano, Alfred.”

America snorted.

“Why not?”

“I just don’t.”

“You worried about Germany? Prussia? They’re going to be busy at meetings. They won’t bother you. Russia’s probably going to be busy, too.” He tried to watch for Austria’s expression. As he returned the disc to the red envelope, Austria’s mouth was set in a hard line, his face revealing little.  
“I’ll be there. Nothing will happen to you. I can even get some of the other allies! Netherlands is pretty tall and scary, right? And Belgium? Canada? Maybe I can grab England too.” 

“I don’t want to go get my piano,” said Austria.

“You rather I get it for you, is that it,” asked America, again, remembering what Lithuania had said. Roderich’s shoulders tensed.  
And it made him think. And it made him wonder, and it made him remember. He had thought one thing because of the brown bread and the mustard, which hadn’t been there before. But Hungary had written a letter, and America remembered that he had not been the only one there.

“Have you even left your house since you got here?”

Austria stuffed his hand underneath his waistcoat.

“You haven’t, have you?” America prodded.

“I think you should leave before you make my ulcer act up even more, Alfred.”

“It’s been months. Months!” an unimaginable amount of time to stay in one place. Even if the house was big, the rest of the world was so much bigger.

But Roderich’s expression twisted in annoyance and pain.

“Please. Just go.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some references for the music in here:
> 
> Schoenberg Piano Concerto, Op 42: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JEY9lmCZbIc
> 
> Mendelssohn's Organ Sonatas: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eTjQuLoCc2c


	8. With All of that Silliness out of the Way

The coffee that France had made was very bitter, but America was sure that it was more due to a lack of decent ingredients than a lack of skill. He drank it because warm bean water was warm bean water and any warm bean water at all was more interesting than the drafts his bosses wanted them to read through, which were already covered in coffee rings, anyway. England was actually taking notes, and France, on the other side of him, looked like he had dozed off, but if either of them woke him, he’d insist that he was merely resting his eyes.

The paper said something about borders and ethnic Germans. Europeans were so messy, leaving their people all over the place and letting them end up outside their actual borders.

Germany himself was in a backroom, anxious and injured, waiting to hear what would become of him and was yet not being allowed to know. Prussia was in much the same state, except instead of being monitored by BeNeLux and a handful of human guards besides, he’d been left with Russia and the other Soviets. No, on second thought, Prussia’s situation was much worse.

“Hey, why isn’t Austria here?” asked America. 

“Miss your boyfriend?” asked France with a sly grin, evidently not as asleep as he looked.

“We’re here to decide what to do with the Germans, right?” asked America heatedly. “He’s one of them, isn’t he?”

“Complicit victim,” said England, poking some punctuation onto his notes. “So yes. And No. We ourselves aren’t that important to the process. He’s even less, I suppose.”

“That still doesn’t explain why he’s not here. I’m sure most of us have stuff we could better be doing.”

“I heard his bosses told him to come, and he declined,” said France sleepily. He stretched his arms and folded them behind his head.

“You can’t just decline direct orders like that… can you?” said America.

“You can if you’re Austria. Said he was sick, I think? I remember he had some kind of nerve problem that left him in a chair the last war, so it didn’t sound odd to anyone,” said France.

“He hasn’t been in a wheelchair all the times I’ve seen him.”

“He’s playing hooky, then. If he can get out of these dreadful things, then more power to him, I say.”

“I don’t think he’s even left the house since Russia put him back there,” said America.

“Hmm,” grunted France. England flipped a page, careful to keep all the pages of the draft in order. Then he sipped his coffee, and put down his coffee, and picked up his pen, and that was about when America realized that his shocking revelation was not getting him the response he had expected.

“Russia got him back, what, three months ago? Four?” said America. “Don’t you think that’s weird?”

“He sounds very dedicated to the ‘I’m sick and bedridden, don’t bother me’ story. I wish I would have thought of it myself,” said France.

“And when I mentioned leaving, he freaked out. Even to get his piano. I think there’s something wrong here.”

“He’s always been neurotic,” said England coolly. “If you can’t deal with it, you need to break up with him. Sooner, rather than later.”

“To get his piano? He wouldn’t do it?” asked France, finally perking up in his chair. 

“No! He said he hadn’t played in years, either. Something about it being too loud?”

“Too loud?”

“That’s what I said! He said too loud!”

“That sounds wrong,” said France. And he was right. It sounded wrong. About the only thing America had known about Austria before his bosses had put him up to this venture was that Austria liked to play the piano. Except, now, he didn’t.

“So you think he’s acting weird? I’m not just imagining things?” said America. “I mean. At this point, I don’t think we should leave him alone.”

“Are you saying you’re going to skip out on us, too, to spend time with your boyfriend?”

“No! I’m just saying that we need to bring him here.”  
  


* * *

  
  
“Oh, it’s America, and… allies.”

Austria had only opened the door a crack, but it was apparently wide enough to see America, England, France, and Canada standing outside his home.

“Yep!” said America. “We’re here to take you to the conference.” America’s boss had thought getting Austria had been a fantastic idea, if they could get him. Such a fantastic idea, in fact, that America and Britain’s bosses decided after conferring that they should send as many nations as they could spare for the task. The car would be crowded with five of them crammed in there on the way back.

“The conference,” said Austria.

“The one in Potsdam. Going on right now,” said England.

“Right, right… let me get my coat,” said Austria, and he shuffled back inside and closed the door. And so, the four allies waited outside the big house, and after five minutes, they started to get suspicious. After ten, Canada said, “He’s not coming out, is he?”

“He probably escaped out the back door,” muttered France.

“No, he’s got to still be in the house,” America insisted. “If he hasn’t left for months, he wouldn’t just suddenly up and leave, would he?” France gave him an uncomfortable look.

“Come on. Let’s go find him.” America opened the door.

The half-eaten brown bread and open mustard jar still sat on the kitchen table, acquiring a noticeable sour smell that America wasn’t sure meant it had gone bad or that they were normal, stinky European food. The room where Austria kept his cello was large and very empty, but France still took the time to criticize what was left on the record player — still Schoenberg’s Piano Concert, Op. 42.

“Masturbatory dreck,” France had called it before England had shushed him. Though, if Austria was still in the house, he would have heard them anyway — it wasn’t like they were taking any special effort to keep quiet as they searched.

But the more they searched, the more America began to doubt that Austria was even in that house. The house was a labyrinth of alternately wide open rooms and cramped servant’s passages and all of them were empty except for the few bare necessities that America had brought back from Russia’s. After he thought he had looked through every nook and cranny, he regrouped back in the kitchen by the brown bread and mustard with England and France.

“I’m telling you, he left out the back door,” said France.

“Did you see him leave out the back door?” asked England.

“I searched the cellar, even. There’s no way he’s still in here. He knew that we would try to search the house, so it’d be stupid to hide in it. He knew he would be found.”  
England scratched his chin, then signed. “Aren’t there stables out back? America, where do you think he’d go around here?”

“Wasn’t there four of us?” asked America.

“Four?” asked England. “Me, you, France, Austria? Four.”

“Four besides Austria,” said America.

“I don’t think so,” said England.

“Canada!” burst France suddenly. “Where is he?”

“If I knew, wouldn’t I have remembered that we brought him in the first place?” England snapped.

“Do you think he got lost?” asked America. It was a big house, and there were a lot of servant’s passages…

“Canada!” France called

“I’m up here!” came a very muffled voice. France looked up, furrowing his brow, until he found the dumbwaiter on the other side of the kitchen. 

“What are you doing up there?” he asked.

“Just come upstairs! I think I found him!” And so they did, America dreading the worst considering he had only heard Canada’s voice.  
Canada’s voice had come from a little room adjacent to the dining room (there were way too many damn rooms in this damn house), staring into a hole in the wall.

“I think he’s down there,” Canada pointed down the chute. “The dumbwaiter’s sitting right there, in between floors, and the rope is jammed between the cabinet and the wall.” America walked over to stare down the chute, but he didn’t have to look very far. The top of the cabinet sat right there, a few inches down. He rapped his knuckles on the top panel. The noise definitely did sound dampened, but that could mean anything.

“It’s big enough for someone to fit inside, you think?” said Canada.

“It wouldn’t be comfortable, but I’d think someone could,” England reasoned.

“We’re wasting time. It’s probably just stuck,” said France. “Every minute we waste in here is a minute further away he’s getting right now —“

“I’m sure it’s not stuck. It probably just needs a little elbow grease,” said America. He rolled the rope around one hand and yanked, hard, the rope jerking loose and the cabinet banging its top on the ceiling of the chute.

And there, pretlzed up in the dumbwaiter’s cabinet, sat their quarry. No, ‘sat’ was not the right word for what Austria was doing. It was hard to give a name for the position he was in, though, as he was quickly untangling his limbs from it anyway.

“Good eye, Matt,” said England, patting Canada on the back. “All right, now with all of that silliness out of the way, we can get out of here.”

Just because they had found Austria did not mean that he wasn’t still trying to scramble instinctively deeper into the the cabinet, despite there being no place for him to go. His face was a mask of abject terror, an expression America recognized from the Baltic nations and did not expect here. 

“The war is over,” said France. “Get down from there.”  
America lowered the cabinet slightly, gently, to let the bottom of it line up with the mouth of the chute.

“We’re not armed. Just come down,” said Canada.

Austria stilled, by now, still wide-eyed and breathless, still unmoving from the dumbwaiter.

“This is becoming childish,” said England in a huff.

“Nobody’s going to hurt you,” said Canada.

It wasn’t that high of a jump out of the dumbwaiter, America thought, but he still pulled the rope and let it down again, shaking the cabinet like he was trying to coax a beetle off of a piece of paper.

“Stop that,” said England, slapping America’s elbow. For a second, out of surprise or involuntary reflex, America let go of the rope — just for a second, but long enough that by the time he had the rope tight in his grip again, the cabinet had slid halfway under the hole in the wall. “What is wrong with you? Don’t let go of the rope!”

“If you don’t want me to let go, don’t smack me!” America shot back.

“Smack you? Smack you! I barely tapped you!”

“And why are you telling me what to do, anyway? I’m the one who organized this operation. I’m the one who should be telling you what to do!”

“Oh, then, by all means, great leader, let the rope go and let him get away. I am sure that will be super conducive to your brilliant plan to bring him back to the conference!”

“Rule number one of the assignment — don’t smack me. Rule number two — don’t sass me! You’ve already broken two rules —“

“Oh, now there are rules —“

But their very important argument over rules of the assignment was interrupted by something. A soft sound. Laughter. Weak, bitter laughter. And it was coming from the dumbwaiter.

“What’s so funny!” England demanded.

“Nothing… just… I can’t believe you two won,” Austria said. Well, much of the work had been accomplished by Russia, but neither of them were prepared to cede much credit to the communist right then. Austria gripped the edge of the hole in the wall so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

“That’s right, we did,” said England. “Now, are we going to do this the easy way or the hard way?”

“Rule number three! No threats!” said America

“I’m not threatening him!”

“Is this true, that this was your idea, Alfred?” asked Austria, his voice shaky.

“Yep! My idea. All mine,” said America.   
Austria reached an arm, finally, out of the dumbwaiter, letting it fall against the wall.

“Help me out of this damn thing.”  
  


* * *

  
  
Despite acquiescence, Austria sat stiffly and bloodless in the back seat between America and Canada. France drove, periodically glancing at them in the rearview mirror, and England smoked, occasionally flicking ashes out of the car’s open window. And the drive was long, longer than it should have been, to avoid wreckage and the breaks in the road across the countryside. So America did the only thing he knew how to do — he talked.

“If you’re worried about seeing your brothers, don’t be,” he said. “You don’t have to see them if you don’t want to. I mean, you’re not allowed to see them even if you did want to, but because you’re not very enthusiastic about the conference anyway, I’m guessing you don’t. It’s not like you have to do anything, either. I’m sure everyone’s bosses will want to see you, just to see that you still exist. And if Russia or any of his friends decide to bother you, you come and get me and I’ll make sure he cuts it out. Okay?”

Austria did not agree that this was okay. He didn’t seem to be listening. He stared straight ahead, jaw clenched, soundless, motionless, like every muscle in his body was resisting the urge to run away screaming. Talking wasn’t doing anything, and after so long of just talking to himself, America had run out of things to say.  
Complicit victim was what England had called him. What did that mean? It didn’t make sense from a legal standpoint, and America was quite sure that’s not what the declaration had actually said.

And then there was the problem of Austria himself. Going into this assignment, he thought this would be like making friends with Japan. Once the government had started to crack in its isolation policy, so had Japan’s terror of leaving his home. He couldn’t think of what would cause this. Austria’s government was cooperating as well as one could hope, and he hadn’t been made aware of any significant problems from his people, either.

So this left the question: was Germany himself the type of man to beat his wife?

This wasn’t something America could say out loud. He had nothing left to say out loud. Instead, he pressed one hand on Austria’s, hoping he could get some sort of message across. And it was strangely gratifying when Austria unclenched his fist and actually squeezed back.


	9. Incapable Of Funny Business

“Hey, I need to borrow Lithuania,” said America, peeking into the room afforded to the Soviet nations. The Baltics slept in a corner, piled on top of each other like cats, and Ukraine was wrapped in Russia’s usual long coat and napping, too. Belarus sat on one side of Prussia, examining one of her many knives, and Russia sat on the other side of him, appearing to be contemplating deeply something about his canteen. Russia looked, in a  word, bad. Underneath his coat he’d been hiding a body that was far skinner than America could ever remember and he could not remember a time when Russia had had it “easy”. His eyes were deeply hollowed and his hair looked greatly thinned, and America wouldn’t be surprised if in a week he started showing a bald spot.

“Why would I loan you Lithuania?” asked Russia tiredly.

“Uh, because he’s super helpful and I asked nicely?” asked America hopefully.

“And why would I loan out someone who is, in your own words, so ‘super helpful’? Why not keep him to myself?”

“Because what I need him for is really important and you totally won’t regret it,” said America.

“This is the worst attempt at espionage I’ve seen from you, Alfred,” said Russia. “Not even telling me what for? No. Also, go away.”

“What about Ukraine?” She seemed even-tempered, at least, so maybe she’d be able to do the same job.

“What part of ‘no’ do you not understand? Maybe I should translate? I said ‘no.’ It is Spanish for ‘no.’ Now go away before I tell my boss you’ve been harassing me.”  
  


* * *

  
  
So, America tried plan B. Plan B was actually just half of plan A and hoping that it would be enough, but whatever — it would have to do.

He opened the door to another room at the compound, finding Belgium and Luxembourg, both with cards in their hands, with two more hands of cards laying face down in front of empty chairs at the table. A lit cigarette hung from Belgium’s mouth and a pile of loose, unlit ones sat in the middle of the table, presumably as a wager.

“You two busy?” asked America.

“Yep,” said Luxembourg, not even looking at him over his cards.

“You don’t look busy.”

“We’re very busy,” Belgium chimed in.

“You’re supposed to be watching Germany and making sure he’s not up to any funny business,” said America.

“I’m pretty sure he’s incapable of being funny, much less making a whole business out of it,” said Belgium, glancing over her hand. 

“Where is he, anyway?” asked America.

“Went to the toilet.”

“So Netherlands is with him?”

“No, he stormed off when he figured out that Lux was cheating,” said Belgium.

“Like you weren’t, too,” Luxembourg muttered.

“Anyway,” she continued, “He said he needed some air, but we know he was really mad. Because that’s what he does. ‘I need some air,’ he says, and the next thing you know he’s gone and declared himself independent from the Spanish —“

“So none of that is actually important and what you’re trying to tell me is that he’s not with Germany,” said America.

“Not as far as I know,” said Belgium.

“And you two aren’t with Germany. So Germany, as far as we know, is now alone.”

“He just went to use the toilet,” said Belgium. “I think he can manage that on his own.”

“The point isn’t managing, the point is funny business! He’s not supposed to talk to either of his brothers, remember?”

“And he won’t,” said Belgium, finally setting her cards down and plucking the cigarette from her lip. “Because Russia is watching Prussia, and Germany is incapable of funny business. He’ll be right back, for sure.”

“He’d better be,” America huffed as he left. Well, they were too irresponsible to look after Austria, not that he thought Austria himself would be prone to causing too much trouble. It was more about everyone else. And, for that matter, he had to find Germany, and fast. Because if anything did manage to happen, he’d be the one blamed, and not the muscle they’d brought for this job.

And so, America headed towards the washrooms. Sometimes, if you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourself.

Or, maybe he could get France to do it, because lucky him, France was approaching down the hallway, looking marginally less beat and emaciated than he had earlier. Something had put him in a better mood, it seemed. It was time to wreck that mood now.

“Hey, France?”

“Ah, hello,” said France, breaking from whatever he’d been preoccupied with thinking of. Maybe a fight with England. Who knew what France found so satisfying?  
Wait, hadn’t he left France and Canada with Austria? France was there, then, but that still meant that Canada would be with Austria, right? And not that they had both decided to leave their charge to be gobbled up by whatever Soviet or German wolves decided to stalk around the compound —

“You seem to actually be thinking,” said France. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Why are you here?” asked America.

“Why are any of us here?”

“No! No, I left you in one of the planning rooms. With Canada?”

“England wanted something with Canada,” said France. 

“And you where both supposed to be watching Austria —“

“He’s a puff, not a child,” said France. “He’ll be fine on his own for a while. It’s not like he’s actually in any danger, here. None of us would actually hurt him.”

“You don’t know that.”

“He wasn’t hurt through the entire war. Why would anyone be stupid enough to start now?” asked France.

“It’s not about that! It’s about the princip— wait, how do you even know that?” asked America.

“Not from what I could see on him, anyway. There aren’t any problems here. We’re ending a long war, we need to stop making problems where there aren’t any.”  
Something was afoot, but right then, America could not quite smell what it was.

“Anyway, the BeNeLux idiots let Germany out of their sights and now he’s freely roaming the building. See, _that’s_ the problem. Where’s Austria? Where did you leave him?”

“He was in the W.C.,” said France. “It’s the place most like a dumbwaiter without stuffing him into one of the cabinets. Seemed comfortable in there.”

Well, shit.


	10. Not Like We Can Cut Him In Half

America was unsure if he should knock or just barge in. His usual instinct told him to barge in, decorum be damned, but this was a washroom. No, if there was one thing America was at least polite enough not to do, it was to not barge in on anybody with their pants down. But it didn’t sound like there were usual washroom things going on in there. He heard yelling, and he was quite sure it was German yelling.

“Victim, victim? You can tell them that, convince them of that, but do not lie to _me_.”

America half paced, half-fidgeted. It was his job to break this up, wasn’t it? His management, his leadership, he was supposed to be the one in control of this situation and quite simply it was the right thing to do. And when there was a right thing to do, well, you did that thing.

“You’re still not telling me where they all went. All of them, there were so many —“

Eventually. You did the right thing, eventually.

“Why do you think I know everything? And stop pretending you’re innocent in all this. They were glad to see them go. And remember I am taking the fall for you. You have never pulled your weight. Ever. Even in the first —“

“America, why are you waiting?”

Oh no. He knew that sing-song voice. It was Russia, and two Germans were arguing about God knew what on the other side of the door. “You don’t need a key for these toilets. You can just open the door, see? Like this.” And Russia opened the door, and the Germans inside did not notice.

“Shut up! Do you think I hid there because I wanted to?”

“Coward!”

“I —“

“You’ve always been a coward and you always will be!” Germany shouted. Both of them were fully clothed, at least. Austria looked significantly mussed and white as a ghost, and Germany’s drawn face looked as if he shouted much more he was going to collapsed from exhaustion, but also damned if that was not what he was going to do anyway.

“So what?” Austria cried back.

“You admit it! _Have you no shame?_ ”

America stood, dumbfounded, with the profound feeling that he had missed something very important, besides the whole beginning of the war, even. Russia just tisked.

“Mr Austria, it is good that you have finally chosen to join us, but perhaps you should refrain from arguing? We are here to discuss peace here, yes? Fighting is inappropriate.”

Both of the Germans stared, both frozen in front of the cistern and sink and did not dare make a move. Russia cocked his head to America next.

“Alfred,” said Russia, again, with that damned undeserved familiarity, “When did he get here?”

“Not long ago,” said America.

“And who brought him?”

“I don’t know, some Austrians,” he bluffed.

“And why wasn’t I made aware of this development?”

“Well, you’re aware of it now, aren’t you?”

Russia blinked.

“I suppose this is true.” He tapped his chin. “Three Germans. Two of us. Two factions, anyway. This is a problem.”

“It’s only a problem if you make it one,” said America. “I mean, it’s not like we can cut him in half.”

“Can’t we?”

“No!” said Germany. Apparently, even if Austria was craven, Germany wasn’t yet finished defending him.

“Hey, you are not the one making the decisions here,” America snapped. “Occupied states should keep their mouths shut!”

And Germany shut his mouth, but still sniffed haughtily.

“Anyway, Russia,” said America. “The answer is no. We are not going to do that.”

“Well, we won’t have to do anything if he manages to escape out that window,” said Russia, pointing to the frosted window that Austria had pried open and was currently trying to vault through, rather unsuccessfully due to a lack of athleticism and it seemed to be too tall. That didn’t mean he was not struggling valiantly to do so, at least until Russia grabbed him around the waist and pried him off the window frame. “Now, we will have none of that — Ack! Hey!” Before America could tell what was happening, Russia had thrown Austria onto the floor with a smack. Austria stayed on the ground, apparently stunned, and Russia had already raised a foot to kick him before America grabbed his foot.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” America demanded. Russia stood balanced on one foot and snarled.

“He _bit_ me.”

That statement was so unexpected that it took a moment for America to put it together, along with the dots of blood beginning to form on Russia’s sleeve. But that wasn’t even the surprising part, but rather that near Russia’s wrist America spotted what looked like the beginning of half-circular scars. Perhaps it was not the first time he had been bitten.

“With all due respect,” said America bitterly, “you did grab him pretty hard.”

“And what was I going to do? Not grab him and allow him to escape? This,” he held up his arm, “Is an act of aggression, is it not?” 

“I mean — listen, he’s not, he’s not _well._ ” It was the only thing America could come up with on the spot. And now that he had said it, he was going to have to stick with it.

“I think you are the only one among us who could be considered any measure of ‘well’, Alfred,” said Russia.

“I mean, more, more than usual, you know,” America tried, nodding his head to the side. Hopefully Russia got what he meant, because he didn’t want to say too much, especially when both Germans were right there to defend Austria’s sanity. Russia gazed down at the Germans with contempt, but he did set his foot down, evidently deciding not to kick the ever-loving crap out of Austria while he was down.

“If you cannot keep him from attacking anyone, next time I will stop him for you,” said Russia coldly, but no matter the chill in his voice, he did decide to leave and America could breathe a sigh of relief.

Austria still lay on the floor, discovering that the impact had snapped his glasses in two and had loosened some of his teeth. And Germany stood in the bathroom, too, against all the no-contact promises that the allies had made to their bosses and the rest of the world.

“We’re prisoners. We lost,” said Germany. “You’ll be better off if you start acting like it.”

No contact with each other definitely involved not talking, but what Germany had said was such good advice that America allowed it to stand.


End file.
